“Fine. You got me. I’m lost without you, Jo.”He holds his hands up in surrender, then pats the step next to him expectantly. Finn doesn’t comment as I stumble a bit on my way across the lawn. I drop down beside him, and after a beat, he adds, “How was it? Fun?”
“It was good.”
“Come on. You can do better than that.”
I frown at him. “You actually want to know?”
His frown mirrors mine.“Why wouldn’t I?”
Because when people ask how you are, they don’t really want to know. Because humans are experts at skirting around each other’s ugly feelings or thoughts.
I shrug.
“Do people in your life make a habit of asking questions they don’t want the answers to?” Finn asks.
“You’d be surprised.”
He presses his lips thin.“Yeah, that’s one thing about all this”—he gestures to the space around us, and I’m not sure if he means this town or life itself—“that I don’t miss. The bullshit goes away when it ends.”
I crane my head to look at him and point a finger an inch from his chest. “Not all of it,” I say.
He looks away, having the decency to be embarrassed. “So you’re even more antagonistic when you’re drunk. Noted,” he says, pushing to his feet. He holds out his hand, as if instinctively, and I reach out to take it, following the same impulse.
“I am not antagonistic,” I protest. I take my hand back and push unsteadily to my feet, catching my balance on one of the posts at the top of the steps.
“Whoa, whoa,” Finn says, jumping up on the porch.“If you go down, it’s on you.”He lifts his hands.“Nothing to catch you with.”
“So much for sweeping me off my feet,” I say, and clamp my hand over my mouth, eyes widening.
One side of his mouth twitches up.“Wish I could, sweetheart.”His tone is teasing, but the sentiment rings true.
The alcohol coils around my thoughts and holds those four words in place.
Finn clears his throat and jerks his chin at the door.“Now get a move on. I can’t shove a glass of water in your hand, but I can harass you until you drink one.”
I head for the door, taking care to avoid the creaky parts of the porch. I make it in the door and to the kitchen without too much sound. I pull two bottled waters from the fridge and head up the stairs, gripping the banister for dear life.
Once I’ve pulled the door shut behind me, I leap for the bed, collapsing face-first on the mattress with my arms spread. The lamp on the nightstand clicks on.
“Water,” Finn says.
I roll onto my back, the world spinning momentarily. I wait for it to stop and sit up, pouting at him.
I raise the first bottle and polish half of it off. I put the cap back on and give it a shake in Finn’s direction before setting it on the nightstand.
“You’ll thank me in the morning,” he says. He wanders over to the armoire.
He steels himself, reaches for the first drawer, and fails to catch the knob. He tries again, and this time pulls the drawer out halfway. Another try and he has it all the way. It takes more effort than usual. Only now that I’m noticing do I realize how much harder it’s been for him the past few weeks. As if his hold on this plane is slipping.
The longest anyone’s lasted is three years. And I passed that a week ago, he told me.
He plucks the first T-shirt he sees and tosses it my way.
Another few seconds of concentration and he sends a pair of sweats my direction. I understand what he’s doing.
I don’t think anyone has ever tried this hard to take care of me.
“Thanks,” I say, cheeks flaming. I slip off the bed and reach for the waistband of my jeans. I shrug out of sticky clothes—sweat or alcohol, probably both—and into the ones Finn pulled out for me. For a second, I hold them in my hands. I’m reminded of being a kid and thinking drinking out of the same cup as someone was the same as kissing them. Holding the same cloth he did is as close as I can get to touching him.
